


keep you in the dark

by nutmeag83



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Coffee Shops, F/F, Music Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 09:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: Gideon works at the coffeeshop owned by Harrow’s family. They bicker, mostly about playlists and cleaning. Harrow's got a secret, though.





	keep you in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this because I needed something fluffier than what the book and most of the fics on ao3 were providing (not that I’m not loving every minute of it; I am enjoying it all SO MUCH). Then it ended up being more of a downer than I’d hope for. That’s not to say it’s dark. I just usually write extreme fluff, and this isn’t that. It’s still plenty snarky though, so there is that!
> 
> Songs mentioned in this fic are in the endnotes. All were culled from my [ House of the Ninth playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7HESLRhC6eEPN8dFfQasoc?si=Jmwi4fD3QfGpA5c2cNWhMw) on Spotify. Title is from Billie Eilish’s “bury a friend.”
> 
> CW for mentions of depression that a side character never seen on screen (Harrow’s dad) suffers from. I tried to keep it pretty vague. Feel free to contact me in the comments or on Tumblr if you’d like to know more before reading it.
> 
> Not beta’d. We die like real cavaliers. (Oh god, too soooon.)

Gideon entered the dark, dusty confines of The Locked Tomb coffeeshop three minutes late on a Wednesday afternoon, which was practically early by her own standards, but would certainly earn her some whiney scolding courtesy of Harrow. To make matters worse, the music piping through the coffeeshop’s sound system sounded like one of Nonagesimus the Younger’s gothy, depressing playlists. _We stand hand in hand like corpses / Our friends are corpses too_. Ugh. Did Harrow have to make _everything_ so dour?

Stepping into the employee space at the back of the shop, Gideon allowed herself only a few seconds to drop her belongings before beelining for the computer that controlled the sound system. She switched it to her latest mix, slung her apron around her neck, and grabbed a broom to sweep while there was a lull. Not that it was ever busy at the coffeeshop these days. Given the dusty décor, faded black walls, crap pastries, and even worse coffee, even the supposedly loyal old crowd had left for greener pastures.

It had been a nice enough place when Gideon had started working there three years before. Well, the décor could have used a facelift even then—it had been the same since Harrow’s parents had opened it in the mid-nineties—but the food and coffee had been good at least. But ever since the Nonagesimuses had been in a car accident that had put Harrow’s mother in a coma, things hadn’t been so great. Mrs. N. had been the baker, and it was a position they didn’t fill after she was hospitalized, so the bulk of the baking was left to Aiglamene or, when she wasn’t working, even worse, _Crux_. They didn’t sell a single baked good when Crux was in the kitchen. At least they could hide how bad their coffee was by sight. The same could not be said of Crux’s scones, which even Gideon wouldn’t touch with a ninety-nine-and-a-half-foot pole, and she ate anything.

Gideon herself didn’t help matters. The place had been sucking the life out of her for too long. If it was a good day, she swept and cleaned the toilets, just to make sure the health inspectors wouldn’t close them down. As much as she hated The Locked Tomb, she needed the money.

Today was a good day. Crux wasn’t working, Harrow hadn’t stalked in yet, and Mr. N wasn’t around, which meant she could do whatever she wanted. She bopped along with the music as she swept, humming and occasionally muttering along with the lyrics. She considered pulling out a dust cloth and spray and attacking dust-fuzzy knick-knacks littering the space, but then she realized that would be doing something good for Harrow, and so she nixed the idea. She was still bitter that Harrow—a whole year younger than Gideon—got promoted to manager before her. Fucking nepotism.

“It's a bitch convincing people to like you / If I stop now call me a quitter,” she sang along, stopping as she heard the back door to the alley open and shut. Harrow returning from taking out the trash.

Maybe she _should_ dust. It would get Harrow off her back and give her a reason to ignore her at the same time. She was still weighing her options when the upbeat music cut off and switched to some whiney dirge.

She whirled around and put a hand on her hip as Harrow stalked into the front of the Tomb in all her black-mood glory. “Seriously, Harrow? It hasn’t even been five minutes.”

“That song is not appropriate for the shop, Griddle. You know that.”

“So it’s got a couple of swear words. No one pays attention anyway. There’s no one _to_ pay attention, except us.”

“And as one of the listeners and as the manager, I get to pick the music.” Harrow pursed her dark purple lips. Between that and her dark-shadowed eyes (if she was going for smoky, it wasn’t working for her), she looked a bit like a skull, if you squinted. Was that on purpose? Was she leaning that heavy into the Tomb’s theme? Just because her parents had been young and high goths when they’d first opened the shop did not mean she needed to follow in their dark footsteps. But she’d been dour and dark for as long as Gideon had known her, so the purple lipstick was probably just the next step in her gothness.

“Well who died and made you fucking manager?” Gideon bit back.

Harrow froze, then gave her best glare—which Gideon had to admit was helped by the dark makeup. “I was given the position because I was the most responsible candidate, of course.”

“I’ve been working here for three years! You’ve only been working half that. How–”

“Perhaps if you didn’t slack off all the time.”

“How is going to class slacking off? It’s state law that I attend school, you know.”

Harrow shook her head. “I’m not fighting about this with you. _Again_. If you’re finished pretending to sweep, you can clean the espresso machine.”

“That’s Crux’s job!”

“One, that’s not his name. And two, he’s not here, so you can clean it.”

Gideon guffawed. “I’m not calling him _Marshal_. It sounds ridiculous.”

“So does Crux.”

“He doesn’t mind if I call him Crux.”

“He complains about it daily.”

“Really? I guess I didn’t notice, since _all he does is complain_. You should fire him, oh high and mighty manager. He’s a worse employee than I am.”

Harrow stared at her, eyes wide in disbelief.

“My scones have never made a single person run from the Tomb screaming in fear and disgust.”

If Harrow was a real human being, Gideon would have sworn that the corner of her mouth ticked up in the start of a smile. But since she was a goth automaton, it must have just been a glitch in her programming.

“Regardless, I’m not firing him. He’s been working here since the beginning. I’ve known him since I was born. Plus, I can’t fire him. I’m not his manager. Just yours.”

“But you act like you own the place,” muttered Gideon under her breath, then louder added, “Maybe you should fire me instead. I would looove to get out of this stupid work-study contract and get a real job. I finish school in a few months.”

Harrow’s face, already tight and pointy, got even tighter and pointier, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “Clean the machine, Nav.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Gideon was extra loud as she cleaned. It helped cover the terrible music.

💀 💀 💀

Time lost all meaning at The Locked Tomb. It was a black hole of stasis. Hours felt like months. Days felt like decades. Saturdays were the worst, when Gideon worked all day. It had been almost enjoyable back when she’d started, back when people still came to the shop. There would be friends hanging out and pretending to do homework while they spent all their time on social media. Young moms covered in tattoos would bring their mini goth children (sooo much cuter than Harrow had ever been) for a coffee and a chat with other adults. Vegans would drag their meat-and-dairy-loving friends and family in for almond milk lattes and tofu scrambles—the Tomb being one of the few places in the area that offered a few non-animal options on their menu. There had been variety and life in the shop, once upon a time.

These days, though, time dragged. Saturday was mostly for people who wanted the quiet of a library, but without the books or other patrons to get in the way. There was the weird writer—so pale he could be a black and white drawing in a book—who came in every weekend, sat in the same spot, ordered a tea (a safer bet than Aiglamene’s burnt coffee), and talked to no one all day; the two medical students in the other corner, who spent the day buried in huge tomes filled with pictures of human cross sections that would fit in with the shop’s décor; and Abigail and Magnus, the only patrons whose names Gideon knew. She didn’t _want_ to know them, but Magnus was a chatty guy, and the couple had been coming to the Tomb longer than Gideon had been around. Those two came out of pity, Gideon thought. The last of the loyal customers. Around midafternoon, two terrible teens would show up, goof off loudly for an hour, and then leave. They only patronized the place because they had karate lessons before, and they had to wait for the first terrible teen’s mother to get off work so she could drive them home. If there had been another coffeeshop in the area that wouldn’t kick them out for being noisy, they’d probably have gone there. But no one at the Tomb could bother to care, so the teens continued to come. They at least gave Gideon something to do.

She was waiting for the ghastly teens to arrive that Saturday as she wondered if pouring hot wax in her ears would muffle the funereal music. She’d actually managed to hear her own mix for a whole twenty minutes that morning before Harrow had barged out of the office to change it, stomping back into the tiny room immediately after and slamming the door as she did so.

Aiglamene was sick and Crux was out of town (Gideon had trouble believing he had a life outside of the shop and assumed he was just pretending to go out of town to get a day off work), so it was just Gideon working the front. She hadn’t seen Harrow since her music hissy fit that morning, and that suited her fine. Not that it mattered, bustling hub that they were. The usuals were all occupied, fed, and watered, and Mr. N was apparently out, so Gideon was free to let her brain leak out of her skull without being bothered.

She was contemplating sneaking into the back and changing the playlist when the door jingled, the bell sound followed by the awkward giggles of the awful teens as they entered the Tomb, all sweaty and pimply (the first because of karate, the latter from hormones). Gideon couldn’t believe she’d hit the point that seeing those two was actually a relief. She’d fallen so low.

There was a muffled screech from the office, but she was distracted from it by the terrible teens crowding the counter, asking for their usual sickly sweet frozen drinks that couldn’t properly be called coffee. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Harrow rushing out the door as she blended the drinks and vaguely wondered what the hell that was all about, but couldn’t be bothered to really think on it. Harrow’s default state was Dramatic Bitch. She’d probably got a hangnail or something.

Apart from the giggles of the horrible teens, the place went back to its usual state of mausoleum silence. The shop’s name was far too apt these days, especially with the faded black walls and dust. Again Gideon considered dusting to keep herself from atrophying from lack of movement, but gave it up as too much effort for too little recognition. And money.

💀 💀 💀

Fucking Tuesdays. Why did Tuesdays even exist? They were nothing days. They weren’t a start to another horrible week like Mondays were, they didn’t have the thrill of almost-weekend that Friday and even Thursday had. They weren’t even middle of the week like Wednesdays. Tuesdays were as bland as the writer who came on Saturdays was. Wallpaper paste. Porridge. Skim milk.

Gideon slumped over the counter, wondering if rigor mortis could settle into a technically living body. If she had rigor mortis, she wouldn’t have to clean the toilets. No, that wasn’t true. Harrow would still make her do it, and twice as fast as usual to boot. Speaking of, Gideon hadn’t seen that pointy, pinched face since she arrived for her shift. Aiglamene was in the kitchen doing whatever it was she did, and it was Crux’s day off—the single not-terrible thing about Tuesdays. Usually Harrow was around, happily bossing Gideon into an early grave, but she hadn’t made a single appearance that afternoon.

Seeing an opportunity, she took a quick detour to quietly knock on the office door and, when there was no answer from either Harrow or her dad, darted into the employee room and switched the music over to her mix. If Harrow showed up within five minutes, all was well (as could be at the Tomb). If she didn’t … something might actually be wrong. Not wanting to think about that, she finally pulled out the dust cloth and spray, mentally prepping herself to tackle the scuzzy layers of dust coating everything.

“Combat baby, come back baby / Fight off the lethargy / Don't go quietly,” she sang along loudly half an hour later as she dusted. She was the only living soul in the place besides Aiglamene, so there was no one to bother with her off-key voice. She had to stop every three minutes to sneeze, but the place was looking slightly better at least, and she felt less restless. She was starting to worry though. Still no sign of Harrow.

Another twenty minutes, and the majority of the dust had been transferred from the knick-knacks to Gideon. She’d need to do laundry that night unless she wanted to show up at school the next day looking as gray as Harrow’s ancient great aunts who visited twice a year to look down their noses at the shop. At least Gideon didn’t perpetually look like she was sucking on a lemon. Huh, that must be where Harrow got it from.

“Harrow, did y–” Aiglamene cut herself off as she limped out of the kitchen to see only the pale specter of Gideon rather than the RBF queen herself. “Where’s Harrow?” she asked, scanning the empty room.

Gideon shrugged. “I’ve been blessed enough to not see her this afternoon.”

Aiglamene frowned, then her face cleared. “Oh, right. She and Crux …” She trailed off, looking guilty.

“She and Crux _what_?” Gideon asked, narrowing her eyes at the other woman.

“Went out,” Aiglamene finished vaguely. “They had a thing. Not sure what.”

Gideon snorted. Those three were thick as thieves. The only way Aiglamene didn’t know what the other two were doing was if she’d had a stroke. Which, at her age, wasn’t completely unlikely.

Before she could question further, or point out the fact that Mr. N. was also in absentia, Miss Congeniality herself entered the Tomb, encased in her usual shadowy black ensemble. She’d forgone the dark makeup for once, which made Gideon even more curious as to where she’d been.

Harrow saw both women staring at her and raised her eyebrows. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, and that’s what so unusual.”

Aiglamene swatted at Gideon for that, but she ducked away just in time.

Harrow merely grimaced. “And, as usual, you _do_ have something on yours, Nav. How many times do I have to tell you not to wear those ridiculous glasses while working? You creep out the customers.”

Gideon looked around, gesturing at the emptiness. “_What_ customers? I’ve had two people come while I’ve been working, and believe you me, they did not give a flying fuck about my shades.”

“Language, Griddle,” Harrow growled, heading to the back.

The music switched from the deep bass of _Live fast, die young / Bad girls do it well_ to the emo, sweet-sounding _I don’t wanna think about you but I do_, and Harrow came back out, apron in place.

Gideon groaned. “And the day was going so well for a Tuesday.”

Aiglamene, obviously wanting to stay out of their bickering, shook her head and limped back to the kitchen. She banged the pots extra loud.

“Gideon, clean the–”

“Dear God, that machine can’t get any cleaner, Nonagesimus! I clean it almost daily and we have all of twelve customers a week, most of those on Saturdays. Two of those drink tea.” She forced down the urge to pull at her hair. This was getting ridiculous. What was up with Harrow? She’d always been weird, but this was above and beyond.

Harrow paused. She’d had extra frown wrinkles in her forehead since she arrived, but they somehow grew deeper. “Then maybe you could lower yourself to dust–”

“Done.”

Harrow’s pinched mouth hung open as she looked around the space, then back at the still dust-covered Gideon. She looked more constipated than usual, so Gideon helped her out.

“I was really bored.”

💀 💀 💀

“Did you make scones?”

Gideon looked up from her phone to where Harrow stood in the door between the office and the shop space, dark and pointy as always, but her expression was almost … pleasant.

“Yeah? I was bored and hungry.” She tensed, waiting for She Who Must Not Be Named to give her usual speech about doing what she was told and nothing more, but Harrow only cocked her head and stared.

“Oh.”

“Want one?” What made her ask that? Harrow rarely ate, and when she did, it was that terrible tofu scramble thing or something else equally ugh. Plus, since when did Gideon offer _anything_ to the black vestal wannabe?

Harrow’s eyes darted about, then she stood a little straighter, her expression going back to her usual sour and haughty one. “And risk poisoning? Think I’ll pass.” She didn’t sound as bitchy as she looked.

Gideon was still contemplating the too soft tone long after its speaker had left the room.

💀 💀 💀

Gideon couldn’t move. She was glued to the seat she’d collapsed in twenty minutes before, which she only knew because her lethargic gaze had settled on the clock and not moved since she’d sat down. The day was sweltering, and the Tomb had no air conditioning, made worse by the humidity of an approaching storm. She prayed it arrived soon. Anything to temper the still heat. She contemplated pulling her shirt away from her sticky skin for a moment’s relief, but decided the effort to move her arm would only overheat her more, canceling out any relief gained. Thank God there were no customers. They were probably at good coffeeshops. Ones with air con, or even just fans.

It was Aiglamene’s day off and Crux had finished his shift an hour before, leaving Gideon in blessed silence. Harrow was off again doing who knew what. Which would have been great news normally, but Gideon actually needed to talk to her for once.

She listlessly raised her phone to her face so she could change the music, having finally learned Harrow’s Spotify password. Just in time, given her lack of moving abilities at the moment. The whiney goth music switched over to something with heavy beats, and she sighed in relief.

Her staring contest with the clock lasted another thirty-two minutes before Harrow trudged into the shop. She must not have seen Gideon sitting in the dark, because her hands scrubbed at her face and into her thin, black hair, and she sighed loudly.

“Heat getting to you too, Oh Brutastic One?”

Harrow jumped and spun to where Gideon’s voice had come from. “What the f– Griddle, what are you doing here? I thought you had the morning shift.” She wiped moisture from her cheeks—sweat or tears?

Gideon scrunched her face in concern, but answered the question instead of asking her own. “Crux and I switched. He must have really needed the morning off. He wasn’t the least bit an ass when he asked me.”

Harrow gave her the ghost of a smile and a nod. “Right. If yo–”

“I’m not cleaning anything. It’s too hot to move.”

A crack of thunder so close it rattled the walls filled the muggy air. Finally. Maybe it would cool down soon.

With a purse of her lips, Harrow stuck out her pointy chin. “I was merely going to ask that you continue to watch for customers. I’ll be in the office.”

“Ugh. It has to be even hotter in there. Can’t you take a break for once? Your job as manager is not that involved. All you have to do is boss me around, and I’m right here!” For some reason, Gideon hoped she could make her laugh. She just looked so … lost.

Harrow shook her head. “Yell if you need me.”

“I need you!” Gideon blurted, then grimaced. That wasn’t precisely how it was meant to sound.

Frozen in stride, Harrow didn’t turn around. “Yes?” It was faint and wobbly.

Patters of water hitting the pavement outside distracted Gideon for a moment, but then she turned back to Harrow. “Business thing. Super quick. My, um, my last paycheck bounced. I know we’ve been super slow lately. And really, Aiglamene and Crux can handle what little work we do have. Could we amend my work-study contract? It’s just by a few months. I really need to find a new job.”

Something twinged in her chest a little as she said it. She’d been at the Tomb for three years, ever since Harrow’s parents had chosen her application for the work-study program the school provided to students. It had felt like indentured servitude for ages now, but it was still something of a home to her, annoying as it was.

“Or if you think it’ll pick up soon, I might …” Now why had she gone and added that in? Something about the set of Harrow’s shoulders had her wanting to provide comfort, even at the cost of her own.

Harrow stood frozen for a few long beats before she sighed and slowly turned. She glanced out the window as the rain began coming down in sheets, then she came to stand in front of Gideon and yanked off the black cardigan that she had to have been sweltering in. “I think it’s time …”

Gideon’s heart sped up. “Whah?”

“I told you the truth.” Her eyes ran up Gideon’s body. “Lose the apron and whatever else you don’t want getting wet.”

“Whah?” Gideon asked again, oh so smartly.

“We’re going out.” Without waiting to see if Gideon would follow, Harrow strode up to the entrance and out into the rain.

Gideon glanced down at her body, but she was already wearing little clothing, due to the day’s heat, so she slipped off her shades and put them on the counter before trailing Harrow out into the storm.

She found her standing in the middle of the empty street, face to the sky, eyes closed, arms out. She looked so young and small without the dark makeup and scowl she usually sported. Gideon waited.

After a few minutes, Harrow took a deep breath, released it, and opened her eyes. She hugged her arms around her own waist and, looking into the distance, she began to speak. “When I was little, my mother told me that secrets told in the rain stayed secret. That they weren’t true until you needed them to be. Since then, any time I needed to get something out but didn’t want my parents to acknowledge it, I told it to them in the rain. They would never get mad or even recognize it until I told it to them again.” She finally turned her dark gaze on Gideon. “I need you to honor that. Can you do that?”

Gideon felt her brow wrinkle, but she nodded.

“Say it,” Harrow prodded.

“I’ll honor your weird family tradition, Harrow. Just tell me what’s going on.” Gideon took a step closer to hear her over the downpour.

“For my whole childhood, my father was such a roller coaster. He’d be happy and silly and completely present one day, then he’d just shut down and stay in their bedroom for weeks. I was used to it. It was all I knew. I learned when to be quiet and leave him alone. It was pretty rare, overall. Mostly he was just my dad. He got help around the time I hit my teens, and for several years he was … good. He seemed content. Happy. Then. The accident.” She bit her lip and looked away. She shivered, and Gideon wondered if she was cold or just lost in bad memories.

“For the first few weeks of my mother’s coma, he was still good. He wanted to put on a good face for me. He tried sooo hard. But as the weeks turned into months, that got harder. Doctors stopped giving us hopeful words. She got moved to long-term care. On top of that, the shop had already started losing customers. There were newer places with better lighting and food. He became more stressed. Then one day … he shut down. He went into their bedroom. And he didn’t come out for a month. He only survived because I forced him to eat and bathe. He hasn’t ever really recovered. He manages the bare minimum on his own now, but no more. He doesn’t even go to the hospital.” Harrow rubbed hands over her face, slicking her hair back from her eyes. The breaths she took were rough and uneven.

“He hasn’t been working nights lately, has he?” Gideon asked, so softly she wasn’t sure she was heard, but Harrow nodded. “You’ve been running the coffeeshop all by yourself?” She nodded again.

“Why didn’t you get help?”

“Marshal and Aiglamene helped.”

“But–”

“I knew he’d recover eventually. He always has. I thought I could handle it for a month or two. But that turned into six and then that …”

“Turned into a year?”

Harrow nodded again, face tight. Was the water on her face just rain, or were there tears mixed in? “Between school and work, I haven’t had time to do anything to try to bring back in customers.

“If I’d known, I could ha–”

“It’s my family’s shop. It’s my problem. Plus, what could you do? You’re still in school yourself. Just a part-time worker who doesn’t care wh–”

“I complain a lot, but I care, Harrow. I spend as much time here as I do at home. It may be a scuzz dump, but it’s my scuzz dump. I care, okay?”

Harrow’s eyes widened. “Okay.”

“So. What now?”

“What?”

“What’s the next step, now that I know?”

Harrow closed her eyes and breathed a few times, then she stared defiantly at Gideon. “We’re closing next month.”

“_What_?”

“I’ve been to the bank three times trying to get them to give us a loan. Dad came the first two times, but … he couldn’t make it the last time. I took Marshal. But with our latest numbers, we’re not worth the risk. We have to close.”

Gideon’s first instinct, surprisingly, was to deny it. To fight to. To say she would help find a way, but then she looked at Harrow, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep rather than makeup. She looked at her and realized, _she’s younger than I am. She’s seventeen and should be thinking about crushes and ridiculous homework assignments. She shouldn’t be burdened with this._ So she took a breath and nodded.

“Yeah. I think that’s the best decision, under the circumstances.”

“I didn’t tell you to get your permission.” Harrow’s face tightened.

“It’s not permission, it’s support. It’s ‘I’ll stop being an ass and let these last few weeks be good ones.’ Or, at least, not terrible ones.”

Harrow shook her head vigorously. “No, Gideon. I told you this in the rain. It’s not real yet. You have to act normal.”

“I think Crux and Aiglamene have it figured out by now.”

“Not for them, Griddle. For me. I need things to be normal for just a bit longer.” Harrow’s eyes were red. It wasn’t just rain on her cheeks.

Gideon raised her arms, one hand pushed wet hair out of Harrow’s face as the other clutched her shoulder. Harrow’s eyes widened and her breath froze. Then Gideon’s arms slid around Harrow, and she pulled her in. Her cheek rested on Harrow’s head. Harrow stayed frozen for a few more beats, then she released a choked breath and relaxed muscle by clenched muscle into the hug.

Gideon didn’t move out of the embrace. She could wait.

💀 💀 💀

“So. Last day as a slave. Got a big party planned?”

Harrow sidled up to the counter. She’d been around more since their talk in the rain. Without the finances of the shop hanging over her, she looked more rested. Gideon swore she’d seen her smile a few days before, though Harrow denied it. And she was back in her usual gothy makeup, which was good. She looked weird without it.

The next day was the last day for the Tomb, but Gideon was finishing the last hour of her final shift as they spoke. It still didn’t feel very real, even though orientation for her new job was less than a week away. As for partying … she hadn’t even considered it. Not that she had many friends to begin with—she’d apparently been happier having a single frenemy rather than cultivating anything more meaningful with her school mates. That said something about her, though she wasn’t sure what that was. Probably that she was an anti-social idiot.

“I’m an indentured servant. Not a slave,” she told Harrow as she picked up her phone and, staring straight into strangely alluring dark eyes, tapped her phone. She grinned as that day’s funeral dirge was replaced with guitars and a vocalist belting out, “Gotta raise a little hell!”

Harrow rolled her eyes, but a smile played at the corner of her purple lips. “I will not miss the terrible screeching you call music.”

She let her shades slide far enough down her nose to wink at Harrow over them. “Oh, you will, Harrow Nonagesimus. My music will haunt you for years to come. And you will miss it.”

“I hope I don’t have to worry about missing it,” she said so quietly that Gideon almost missed the words over the rocking beats.

She’d slipped her shade back up by then, but she knew her eyebrows were raised enough to be seen over the frames. “Whah?”

Harrow fidgeted—fidgeted! Harrow Nonagesimus, Dark Queen herself—and shrugged, looking away. “Maybe we could … go to dinner or a movie or …”

“Are you _asking me out_?”

“No! No. Just … well, unless …?” She looked away.

It took Gideon a minute to find her voice, but in the meantime she grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

Harrow looked back and quirked a smile of her own. “Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know Crux is A Marshal, and that it’s not his first name. But he needed a first name soooo.  
¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I considered doing more final moments with these two, but then I’m like “Hey, if Tamsyn Muir can leave these two on the cusp of something more, so the hell can I.” And that’s all she wrote.
> 
> Songs mentioned in this fic, in order of appearance:  
[”Corpses”](https://youtu.be/Yyvvdpyq3QY) by Saint Sister  
[“I Can’t Decide”](https://youtu.be/buYrBbwyCGE) by Scissor Sisters  
[“Combat Baby”](https://youtu.be/Wz3yl8ZLkTI) by Metric  
[“Bad Girls”](https://youtu.be/2uYs0gJD-LE) by MIA  
[“Vampire Weeknight”](https://youtu.be/ev2z-VjrWts) by Jenny Owens Young  
[ Raise Hell”](https://youtu.be/rmYyPcEQKU4) by Dorothy
> 
> You can come babble excitedly at me on Tumblr [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/). Or I lurk sometimes in the locked tomb disccord as nutmeag.


End file.
